The Grain

Although it seems a strange -and some would say heretical- way to start this piece, I would like to draw you a parallel between two tales from the annals of musical history.

As a young black man growing up on a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, Robert Johnson was obsessed with the blues. He spent his days idolising the great guitarists of his day, but historical accounts suggest that his lack of talent stymied his dream of playing in the style of his heroes. His hand was forced; his ambition got the better of him, and a deal was struck with a monolithic, egregious being whose power dictated his musical output for the rest of his life.

As a petty bourgeois layabout growing up in the leafy environs of Hampstead, Johnny Borrell was obsessed with himself. He spent his days in a stupor of auto-idolatry, but historical accounts suggest that his lack of talent stymied his dream of bringing his unique brand of vainglorious narcissism to the masses. His hand was forced; his ambition got the better of him, and a deal was struck with a monolithic, egregious cultural phenomenon whose power will dictate his musical output for the rest of his life.

Strikingly similar, no? Who would have thought that the King of the Delta Blues would ever have the good fortune to be mentioned in the same sentence as the Prince of Forgettable Cock Rock? Unfortunately for Mr. Borrell, this is where the similitude ends…

Johnson was a pioneer of his age, and a man who was simply hell-bent (ahem) on becoming a master of the blues. Borrell and his protégés came in through the back door and, using Q magazine as a divining rod, transformed themselves from passable, indie, Strokes rip-offs, to whimpering purveyors of MOR pap in the blink of an eye. A transformation that – wait for it – unbelievably coincided with the triumphant rise of venerable stadium rockers and childhood bed-wetters Coldplay, Snow Patrol and Keane. For a songwriter of such genuine triteness, the opportunity to have 20,000 pairs of eyes trained on his every move seemed to be too much to pass up. So Mr. Borrell wrote ‘Somewhere Else’ and delivered Razorlight into the arms of the baying masses.

But how did the song come about? Until St. Johnny deigns to furnish us with a ‘Making of’ video for this aural miscarriage, I will have to fill in the gaps and imagine the creative process for this song myself. It goes something like this:

The band arrives at a new rehearsal studio. There is a foreign and exotic instrument in the corner that none of them have played before. Someone tells them it’s what has been used to sell formerly semi-credible indie bands to the Great British Public. Borrell’s piggy eyes light up. It’s a piano.  Apparently it can play the same chords as a guitar, only it sounds different. The band picks 3 chords. They play them ad nauseum, put some strings over the ‘emotional’ bits, then add that killer new instrument and hey presto, Wembley Arena here we come!

But haven’t we forgotten something? Some vital element to this musical Holocaust? You guessed it, its Johnny’s vocal – the crowning cherry atop this mountainous turd of a song. Half rapped and half intoned from his inner Vietnamese child, Borrell’s mortifying attempts at heartfelt balladry are matched only by an ability to write that would be pilloried at a national essaying competition for the terminally brain-dead. We’re talking about a man who admitted to writing most of his lyrics in the car on the way to recording sessions. Baudelaire he is not:

“And I met a girl
she asked me my name
I told her what it was
She looked up at me
I tried to explain
Exactly what I lost

But now I just can’t help myself
I really really wish I could be somewhere else
Than here
You give me everything I need
but I really really wish I could be somewhere else
Than here

Just anywhere else
Just anywhere else than here

And I wont forget
No I wont forget
No I wont forget”

If there is a collection of more embarrassingly clumsy and insincere statements in a song so desperate to be taken seriously, then it has failed to reach my ears. It’s not the fact that the lyrics were probably the result of some coke-fuelled scribbling in the studio toilets that gets me, it’s the faux-earnestness of Borrell’s delivery that raises this atrocity above so many of its peers. As with so many singers, Borrell eschews the opportunity to provide any meaning or creative endeavour to his craft, but what sets him apart is his apparent unwavering belief in the brilliance and profundity of his work.

Ultimately, to be taken remotely seriously as an artist requires, amongst other things, dedication, patience and a love for what you do. You have to sacrifice a part of yourself, whether it be your time, your heart or even your soul. The probability that Robert Johnson actually sold his spirit to the Devil in exchange for the dexterity he so craved is slim. The reality is more prosaic; the myth has lived on due to the romantic notion of Johnson sacrificing a part of himself for genuine musical greatness. His songs are assured a place in the canon of 20^th Century music and his iconography will be passed down through the generations in myriad forms.

Borrell really did hawk his soul, but to a far greater evil – the NME shitegeist. His band’s music is assured a place in the collective nightmares of anyone who has ears, and the only generational perpetuity he can hope for is when someone finds his picture in a tattered Just17 annual at a jumble sale 30 years from now.

It’s the price you pay for making lazy art.

ST